


And I’ve Died a Thousand Times Before

by 3988Akasha



Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-17
Updated: 2013-02-17
Packaged: 2017-11-29 15:12:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/688378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/3988Akasha/pseuds/3988Akasha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Miles continues to repeat actions he will never take, but maybe, someday he might.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And I’ve Died a Thousand Times Before

**Author's Note:**

  * For [theplotholesmademedoit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theplotholesmademedoit/gifts).



> The companion piece to [Death Isn't Just a Heartbeat](http://archiveofourown.org/works/678810)

He hovers at the border, one foot suspended in the liminal space between here and there. He closes his eyes and pushes the thoughts of the last time he stood near this same border from his mind. He refuses to reminisce about the past, about a life he knows he will never be able to reclaim. He understands there are certain things you can’t come back from, not ever. His efforts are in vain because he hears _him_ , the voice a whispered caress against his exposed and raw nerves. He hears _his_ voice, knows _he_ is calling him, calling him home. He shakes his head though, shakes it until it hurts so much the voice disappears.

He finally puts his foot down, the whole limb tingling from defying gravity for so long. He continues to stare at the border, the invisible line shimmers before his eyes. He doesn’t stand at a crossroads because he has only two directions, two paths, two options, but he only sees one. He knows what he should do, he knows why he came here, but something holds him back from the line. He still hears _his_ voice on the wind, the words unimportant because he knows the sentiment. He is undeserving of the voice, of the sentiment. He wants, but knows his desires are irrelevant to the choice he will make. His desires have never been an important part of his decision making. He understands that crossing the line isn’t just a metaphor, realizes the powerful implications of his pending decision, knows what it means for him and for _him_.

He makes a fire because it’s nighttime and he remembers that’s what he’s meant to do, and he feels as though he should do something right. He knows it’s small and insignificant, but it’s something he knows he’s done right, so maybe _he’ll_ be happy knowing he managed that. He puts his hands over the fire, knows he should feel something, but he doesn’t; he doesn’t feel anything anymore. He roasts the squirrel he killed on his journey to the border, knowing he should feel hungry. He puts the meat in his mouth and forces himself to choke it down, knowing _he_ would be mortified to learn he’d died of starvation. He refuses to add that indignity to his list of sins.

He douses the fire with water he should probably drink, but he isn’t thirsty. He uses the stick from last night’s dinner to draw a line where the border is and laughs at his melodramatic thoughts of lines in the sand, but he pushes down harder, making the line deeper, etching its permanence into the ground. He continues to drag the stick along the line until the stick snaps in half from the pressure, his hands already bloody from his grip on it. He absently wipes his hands on his pants as his eyes scan the area for another stick because he knows the line isn’t deep enough, doesn’t mean enough, not yet. He needs the line to never disappear, he needs to mark his cowardice forever.

He stands with one leg poised just this side of the line.

He holds it until he can no longer feel his leg.

He wills himself to cross the line.

He makes a fire each night.

He eats squirrel some nights, too.

He always comes back to stand near, but never on, the line.

He knows a stronger man would cross the line and save both of them, but he is not a stronger man.

He is a coward standing at a line he’ll never cross.

He will stand in front of a line he will never cross until he forgets to build a fire, until he forgets to eat the squirrel.

He will die standing in front of the line between here and there. 

**Author's Note:**

> I blame all the Miloe feels on my dash, but I did say I'd do a companion piece, so you're welcome?


End file.
